Best Psychopathy Poems
I am currently in training to be a psychopath.
Don't laugh, a psychopath isn't necessarily bad,
There are many psychopaths out there who are highly functional,
despite not having any conscience at all,
or their inability to feel anything emotional.
Finding my inner psychopath I believe will be my salvation.
One can't feel depressed when one can't feel depression.
He was
sick of her.
He was
bored
and
restless.
The tramps
at work
stimulated
his thirst
for new
conquests.
He thought
to himself:
This diabetic
is taking up
so much of
my time.
I'm sick of
her whining.
And the needles
she's poking.
God must
be joking.
So he
thought deeply.
About
ridding himself
of someone
so sweetly.
I must
formulate a plan.
It's my
time to shine.
My needs
must be met.
I don't
have time
for this
sickness.
But I
must operate
ever
so sneakily.
Those
vials
in the frig.
Keep
this sicko
alive.
I must
get free.
I have
better prospects.
And better
games to play.
Then an Aha
moment came.
What if I
replace
her insulin
with
salt water
instead.
She'll go into
a coma
with no
one the wiser
And I can play
The greiving
boyfried
at work
and get
sympathy
sex
from the
vulerable
and down
trodden
then when
I catch one
I can
play this
sick game
all over
again
It's a win
win for me
all over
again
What a
plan
I'll impliment
it tomorrow
and I'll
be free
to be
ME
Psychopathic
AND
Unholy
(This is fiction)
I will never hurt again, nor will I ever love or laugh.
That's the lifestyle I will live when I become a psychopath.
Pretty sweet deal if you ask me.
I hope I can attain a healthy level of psychopathy.
I imagine it would be a tremendous relief.
Subtle it's subversion it just catches the eye.
Can't tell which diversions really the greater lie.
Take caution it's pervasive yet it goes undetected.
Subconsciously persuasive now your mind is infected.
Unknowingly you've now become part of the collective.
Working towards your own downfall is the directive.
Everyone's unique but that dare not be expressed.
Step outside the lines and find you're being oppressed.
Question the insanity you're seen as defective.
Grow your mind on clarity and gain some perspective.
The powerful are driven by a need for control.
Empathy is weakness basically rigmarole.
Feeding the division to keep everyone confused.
Far from idle hands are puppeteering the used.
Shadow games the projections are finely curated.
Join the dots the picture shows it's all fabricated.
no halos on these heads
just their undesirable traits.
cold charm —
the smile that sells you peace
while moving the knife
with their eyes closed.
born without fear —
they don’t flinch,
they don’t wake up sweating,
success is never looking back.
instrumental empathy —
they understand feelings
the way a locksmith understands doors.
surgeons their impulsivity —
where risk tastes like oxygen,
consequences are somebody else’s bill.
you meet them at the counter.
corporate executives
talking “efficiency”
to faces they won’t remember.
politicians
shaking hands,
forgetting names,
promising favors like coins.
lawyers
translating pain into strategy,
winning clean,
sleeping fine even after seeing
the most horrific
photographs during the course of
a trial.
police officers
calling it procedure
when innocence people are routinely
shot and self preservation
is the seed of dark lies.
emergency-room surgeons
steady hands, quiet hearts—
you want them that way
until you don’t
consequences are somebody else’s bill.
media hosts and influencers
preying on the endless white trash
manufacturing outrage,
selling certainty,
never bleeding, cherry picking.
the test doesn’t call them evil.
it calls them obtuse and effective.
and the public keeps showing up,
child like trust in hand,
learning to late
what their trust has cost them.
why are they not tested in advance,
saving lives and millions of dollars in advance?
I have seen the polished mask—
how it fits without a seam,
how it gleams in borrowed light
and calls itself a face.
There is no tremor in the voice,
no fracture in the gaze—
only a stillness
where a human storm should live.
He speaks of greatness as of air,
something owed, not earned;
the world, a tilted mirror
forever meant to hold him upright.
And yet—
beneath the architecture of charm,
beneath the fluent, measured grace,
there is no audience but hunger.
No echo answers when he calls
into the hollow of himself.
Others are instruments—
strings to be tightened,
hands to be broken,
notes to be spent and discarded
when silence is more convenient.
Remorse is a language he learned
only to counterfeit.
He knows its grammar,
not its weight.
I have watched him describe ruin
as though recounting weather—
unmoved, precise,
untouched by consequence.
And I, who am trained to listen,
find only absence speaking:
a careful, curated void
dressed in human cadence.
There is no villain here
in the story that he tells—
only a hero without limits,
and a world that fails him daily.
But in the quiet after he leaves,
in the space where truth settles slowly,
I write what he cannot perceive:
A life without others
is not power—
it is an empire
built entirely
of reflective glass.
He never asked for truth.
Only echoes.
He built a palace from mirrors,
where every face returned his own
with brighter teeth,
louder applause,
and carefully rehearsed devotion.
Around him gathered the faithful—
not believers,
but survivors.
They learned that praise was currency,
that silence was suspicion,
that doubt carried its own sentence.
He called manipulation wisdom,
cruelty discipline,
fear respect.
The room became a theater
where every bow concealed a calculation,
every handshake measured for advantage,
every promise already searching
for its escape.
He mistook obedience for love.
He believed that history
could be bullied into forgetting,
that conscience was only another servant
waiting to be dismissed.
Yet mirrors grow tired.
One by one
they reflected not a sovereign,
but a solitary figure
surrounded by the architecture of flattery—
a kingdom whose walls
were built from borrowed voices.
For sycophants never worship power.
They worship proximity.
And when the throne begins to crack,
their footsteps are the first sound
to disappear into the distance.
Then, at last,
the ruler hears
what had been hidden beneath
a lifetime of applause—
the unbearable silence
of a man
who mistook fear for loyalty,
and manipulation for greatness.